


The deals you made

by Aijja



Category: The Avengers - Ambiguous Fandom
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Canon-Typical Violence, Fae & Fairies, Getting Together, Implied/Referenced Torture, M/M, Mythical Beings & Creatures, Not Avengers: Age of Ultron (Movie) Compliant, Not Captain America: Civil War (Movie) Compliant
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-02-27
Updated: 2017-02-27
Packaged: 2018-09-27 06:33:42
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,321
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9980636
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Aijja/pseuds/Aijja
Summary: Bucky is ten when he meets a boy who helps him win a price for Steve. There's handshake to agree to a contract, due sometime in the future. They never meet again. Or at least, Bucky doesn't remember it.AKA. Don't make deals with people who appear from thin air.Made for Winterhawk minibang





	

**Author's Note:**

> This is my first proper Winterhawk fic. It kind of got out of hand. 
> 
> Huge thanks to Tanouska for being a brilliant beta and putting up with my badgering. 
> 
> Art by Sian http://archiveofourown.org/works/9979586

**Bucky**

Bucky has money for one shot at this. He has three tennis balls and twelve pins to knock over. It should be easy. He has practiced for hours with empty tin cans and rocks over far greater distance than what he’s now faced with. Mrs. Rogers had said that he threw so well that he could try for the big league when he grew up. He had smiled and thanked her even if she was lying. Bucky knew he would never play baseball for a living. Not as a poor kid from Brooklyn who couldn’t even afford a ball, let alone glove or a bat. But he had smiled and thanked her before begging for Steve to come out and play. There was a carnival in town! But Mrs. Rogers had smiled, though to Bucky it seemed that she was sad, even with her smile.

“Steve is a bit sick, Bucky. Maybe in a few days?” She had closed the door on his disappointed face.

“But the carnival won’t be here in few days.” He had tried to whine to the closed door but to no avail. You did not change Mrs. Rogers’ mind after she had made it.

That left him here, holding a ball and glaring at the pins. He can do this. He will make the tower fall, get the grand prize and bring it to Steve. That way they will both have kind of visited the carnival. The man running the booth looked bored, uninterested in the boy who wasted his only money on a ballgame. It was a slow day, Bucky had left in the early morning to get here on time and hopes to be back before his ma finds that he was missing.

“Sometime today, kiddo,” the man grumbles, then flashes a smile at a pretty young mother walking by. Bucky draws his arm back and lets go. The ball was lighter than the rocks had been and the ball just slightly brushes against one of the top pins. The man running the booth smirks down at him. “Two left.” Bucky suppresses the urge to glare at the man. Stupid adults, he’s got this. He adjusts his feet, kicks a few pebbles away so they don’t push through the thin layer his worn shoes offer. Bucky tosses the ball  in his hand a few times, then draws his hand back and aims more carefully. The first throw was too low and went too far right, so he aims a bit more to the left and higher. It misses the pyramid completely.

“Shoot,” Bucky mutters and the booth runner laughs at him, revealing blackened and missing teeth.

“Just throw your last one and bugger off,” The man says and turns away from Bucky, rummaging somewhere in his booth. Bucky starts to get nervous. He’s missed two already and he doesn’t have anymore money for a new try.

“Hey kid. You need help?” The voice by Bucky’s ear surprises him, causing him to flounder a bit on his spot, dropping the ball. He turns around to find a boy, few years his elder, picking the ball up and tossing it in the air with his right and catching it deftly with his left. Bucky stares. He’s dressed in an off-white shirt, that has grass stains on it, stitched up here and there with thread not matching the colour of the fabric. His pants are too long, one of the legs rolled up to his knee and the other brushing the dirty ground. He has no shoes. If his face wasn’t clean and friendly, dirty blond hair sticking up all over, with a surprisingly white smile and blue eyes, Bucky would have crossed the street if he came across him.

“What?” Is what he manages to utter. He gets a grin in answer and the blond boy nods to the man, still rummaging in the back, somehow not hearing the boys talking. Or maybe just not caring.

“You won’t get them all down. Why are you even trying anyway?”

“My friend is sick but he really wanted to come, so I thought that if I won him a price it would be as if he was here too,” Bucky explains, muttering and looking at his shoes. Out loud his idea sounds stupid and childish, and he knows he’s neither. The blond boy drops his grin and suddenly appears to be older than Bucky first thought.

“He going to be fine? Your friend?” he asks and Bucky shrugs. Steve’s always been sick more than him but not usually in the summer like now. He hears what their moms aren’t saying. About the lack of medicine and how weak Steve is all the time.

“What’s your name?” The question makes Bucky raise his head and stare at the boy, who smiles down at him.

“Bucky. Bucky Barnes.”

“Well, Bucky. If we make a deal I’ll win you the prize and you can take it to your friend, which I’m sure will make him get better.” There’s a calloused and slightly dirty hand thrust in front of Bucky’s. “You can pay me back someday when my friend needs help. Okay?” The smile seems genuine and though Bucky is a kid from Brooklyn who doesn’t trust strangers easily, there’s something about the other. There’s something that  draws him to the bright smile and the carefree, confident way the offer is made.

“You can really win me a prize? And I don’t need to do anything for you?” Bucky looks suspicious. It sounds like a too good a deal. He wonders how no one is paying any attention to them. This surely is cheating in some way? But not even the owner looks up at them.

“No, you just owe me one. I’ll collect it sometime in the future when my friend needs help.”

“Fine, but who are you?” 

“You can call me Clint. I’m just a circus brat here.” They shake hands and for some reason the touch feels more heavy and meaningful than it should. Bucky watches as the boy, as Clint, turns towards the booth and the still standing pyramid of pins. “As soon as I throw this I’ll be gone and you need to insist on your price from Darvin. If you don’t he’ll try to fool you by giving you something less than what you deserve.” The blue eyes look at Bucky until he nods. To Bucky it seems like time slows down. Clint eyes the pyramid briefly, then draws his arm back and the ball is flying faster than Bucky can comprehend it. The pins clatter to the ground and Bucky looks, mouth open as the world starts to go at normal speed again. The man in the booth spins around as the pins clatter on top of him. Bucky smiles widely at the man who stares, mouth agape, at him. Bucky turns to thank Clint but he is nowhere to be seen. Ecstatic, he steps up to the booth and points at the prize he wants, proudly displayed on the highest shelf on the back wall.

“I want that one, please!” The man glares at him but Bucky meets his gaze, stubborn tint to his jaw, shoulders squared. They have a staring contest before the man loses, heaving a sigh and turning to pick the prize from it’s place on the shelf.

 “Fine, here you go.” The man hands him the wooden case and Bucky grabs it immediately, holding it close.

 “Thanks,” he yells as he sprints away, dodging people, in a hurry to get back home. The sun is almost completely down when Bucky, panting and grinning, knocked on Steve’s door. It took longer than normal but then Mrs. Rogers was opening the door.

 “Bucky, I told you. Steve is still sick and can’t come out to play.”

 “I know that. But I got this for him.” He hands the wooden case to her.“There’s a circus in Coney Island, I won that. Now Steve can have something to do when he’s in bed.” In the case was a full set of colouring pencils, in all the colours of the rainbow.

 He gets grounded, he’s not supposed to go so far away from alone as well as dozen other rules he broke, but it was worth it. The smile on Steve’s face is worth it as he presents his latest drawings, colourful, pretty pictures of animals and people, to Bucky.

 

**Bucky Barnes**

 

It’s not the type of place he hangs around. He frequents places where the dancing is the reason people go there, the food or drinks are after thoughts. This is different. Sure there are pretty people around, the music is loud and the drinks are not disguised poison in a cup. But mostly people are there to sit, talk and make friends. Steve holds court in one of the corner booths. Papers strewn across the surface that used to be sticky and messy but was cleaned specifically for him. The first time Steve had brought the idea up Bucky had been sceptical. Who would pay money for portraits of themselves? Or rather, who _had_ money here to throw away to a sketched portrait, done in a dingy bar in the dingiest part Brooklyn. But for some quirk of fate Steve always manages to find some poor sod with extra cash in their pockets which means that they will at least break somewhat even at the end of the night. That, and Bucky can nurse his beer for a long while. Or maybe if he flirts enough the cute blond behind the bar will give him something on the house. The thought brings a wide smirk on his face as he takes a longer look at the bartender. At his sandy blond hair combed neatly to one side, the strong jaw line and the wide set of shoulders that are busy carrying and putting away a load of clean glasses. It wouldn’t be a hardship at all to spend the night flirting with the guy, getting maybe a little something-something on the side as a bonus. When the guy looks up from his duties Bucky is there, sitting by the bar and giving the guy the smile that has gotten Bucky, and sometimes Steve, in a whole lot of trouble over the years. The guy smiles back, wiping his hands in a white towel and leaning against the bar, opposite of Bucky.

“So, what can I get ya?” His eyes are blue and remind Bucky of stormy skies. The accent isn’t native to Brooklyn, not from New York if Bucky has any knowledge of these things. And he does, proud native that he is.

“Something cheap and easy,” he drawls and gives the guy a slow, obvious look.

“I’m cheap and easy. Do me,” a voice laughs somewhere farther away, followed by more laughter. The blondie laughs but shushes the crowd.

 “Shut up over there or I’m cutting you all off. Can’t you see I’m having a conversation.” His voice is full of contained hilarity and though he doesn’t look older than Bucky he carries some seniority here and the patrons quiet down a bit. There’s still a few whistles and kissing noises but that’s easy to ignore. Besides no one dares to annoy the bartender too much in fear of being cut off completely.

 “Sorry about that. New Yorkers have no manners. I have some beer on tap that can give you what you want.” The bartend waits for his nod and fills one of the tankards from the tap. It’s light brown, almost yellow and tastes horrible. The blond laughs at Bucky’s face.

 “You asked for a cheap and easy. That’s it, never said anything about it tasting good.” He winks at Bucky. Bastard. Bucky likes him.

 “Forget about tasting good. This is piss.” It’s not like he expected anything better from a place like this with the lack of money he has but that does not mean that he won’t complain about it.

 “Not my piss, not my problem.” The bartender smirks at him and then wanders away from the bar to collect dirty glasses and wipe a few tables. The view is good. Narrow hips with the broad shoulders, showing off nicely with the tight black trousers and the simple white shirt. Bucky sips at his drink and watches. Steve is doing good, laughing and drawing at his table. No money changes hands though, that Bucky can see. But it’s fine, they are fine. They never have enough money but they are young and bold and have never had much anyway. He watches the bartender make small talk, flirt with the old man in a suit. When he comes back Bucky leans on the counter and leers as the cutie bends over to throw bottles away and puts the dirty glasses somewhere. He gets a smug smile for his troubles. Bucky might be just fantasizing the butt wiggle but it’s a good fantasy.

 “So, how you gonna pay?” The question is teasing in tone but there is the hint of threat in his body language. Bucky is not worried. Flirtation and talking his way out of things is the norm with the way they grew up.

 “I seem to be low on money. My friend’s business plans fell through.” He leans closer and nods towards Steve who’s arguing with an asshat about not doing portraits for free if he doesn’t want to. “What would you have off me?” He asks, gives the bartend a smirk that usually gets him what he wants.

 “Are you sure you are willing to offer me that?” There’s a dangerous edge to the wide smirk as the space between them is almost closed altogether.

 “I could seal it with a kiss.”

 “You owe me a drink then.” He leans over the table and fists his hand in Bucky’s shirt lapel, using it to drag them to a meeting point, lips meeting in a sloppy kiss. There’s a round of hollering and whistling around them and Steve’s unmistakingly annoyed ‘dammit Bucky’. Bucky feels a bit dazed even if he got what he wanted. The kiss ends with a little nip at his lips and then a gentle slap with a dishtowel.

 “So, Bucky. It was nice to meet you. Go back to your little friend now. You owe me a drink and I’ll collect it at some point.” The bartender disappears somewhere and Bucky is forced to forget about the man as Steve gets into a fight with some asshole with wandering hands and cruel words.

 Week later he’s off to the War.

 

**Sergeant Barnes**

 

After he’s exhausted every avenue of possible escape plans, he’s done everything he can to make them take him and not the others. It worked. After hours if not days filled with torturous experiments and ‘medical tests’, they throw him into a cell. He’s hurting and cold, ravenous after not being given anything to eat or drink. On the only bright side, there’s a man there with him. A soldier with a corporal insignia on his battered shirt.

“‘Allo, sarge. Fancy meeting you here.” The corporal’s voice is raspy, unused. Or maybe overused, Bucky himself did a lot of screaming when in the hands of the doctors. He’s older than Bucky is, mid to late thirties maybe. Hair caked with dirt, and shorn to almost nothing. Bruises and cuts littered across his face and hands.

 “Give me a report, corporal.”

 “Don’t be so formal. We’re not going anywhere except back to the table.” Despite his words, the corporal straightens up a bit from his curled up, sleeping position to sit, giving Bucky a once over. “I’ve been stuck here forever. I was scouting ahead with a few others but got ambushed. No idea what happened to the others or where they are. Or where we are for that matter.” His shrug is a defeated one. “Sorry I can’t be more of a help for you.”  Bucky sighs and slides down to sit next to the other.

 “Sergeant Barnes.” Bucky offers his hand to the man and they shake.

 “Corporal Clinton. Sorry you’re stuck here with me.” The smile on Clinton’s face is a bit apologetic under the layer of bruises and dirt.

 “Not that you could have helped it either. ” Bucky gets a dry, surprised laugh out of that.

 “No, I couldn’t have. You got caught alone?” Clinton asks and Bucky shakes his head.

 “Nah. About a third of my group was with me. I was just being a mouthy shit and got the special invitation to here.”

 “Taking the fall for your men like a good sergeant?” It’s a dry laugh of a question, though not a humorous sound at all. The smile dies on Bucky’s face and he faces the wall.

 “It’s my job. And isn’t that why we are here after all? Helping those who need it?” He thinks of Steve. Tiny, sick Steve who wanted to enlist no matter what. Not because he had wanted a fight but to fight because it was necessary. His friend, his brother had been one of the reasons Bucky was here now. Sitting in the cold and damp cell, next to a stranger, more torture ahead of him, he realized that the probability of never seeing Steve, or his sisters again, was high.

 “Maybe you. I’m just here for the paycheck.” The delivery is chipper and not truthful, not completely at least. Bucky doesn’t think that he’s a sleeper here in the cell, not really. He’s still on guard, not telling anything about his battalion, his men, their positions or anything important even though they chat to pass the time. Bucky learns of Iowa, the never ending cornfields and the long days working at a farm under the sun. Bucky tells of New York, the greatest city on earth and growing up in Brooklyn. It passes the time but doesn’t disperse the thought at the back of Bucky’s mind of their situation. He tries to look for an escape, has Clinton look with him. The man huffs and puffs but he does help. They find nothing. No way out. They pass out in the corner, back against back to keep at least a little bit warm. The next time the guards come they take Bucky. Clinton waits for him and curses the guards. He welcomes Bucky, stumbling, disoriented, and in pain, back with a warm embrace, water and soothing words. That’s how it goes. Over and over again. They never take Clinton, only Bucky. He almost resents the other for not getting his share of the pain before admonishing himself. It’s not Clintons fault that Bucky is a mouthy shit who asks for trouble even without Steve here. Clinton’s presence helps, it means he’s not alone in a dark cell somewhere, waiting to be tortured to death.

 

\-----

 

When Steve rescues him, and isn’t that embarrassing in the best possible way, he asks about the man in the cell. Steve, huge, big Steve, shakes his head. “There was no one else there, Bucky. Everyone who was alive is outside already.” There’s a pause and clap on his shoulder. ”Everyone is safe.”

 There’s no sight of corporal Clinton anywhere and no one else had even seen him in the cells. Just another casualty in the war. Bucky dismisses him out of his mind, he has Steve back with him. Watching the idiot’s back is all he can focus on right now.

 

**Winter Soldier**

  


The soldier drags himself up on the bank. Panting and bleeding he pulls himself up, legs still in the river water. There’s a boom behind him. Hot metal parts crash into the water, few of the smaller pieces scorch him as they hit naked skin at his neck and arm. The soldier is just done. His last order is complete. The riverbank is rough under his cheek but the soldier doesn’t care. It’s done and over. Whoever that man was, who claimed to know him, called him _Bucky_ of all things, would drown. He doesn’t hear footsteps but suddenly there’s a voice in his ear, a pair of lips brushing gently against his hair.

 “I’m collecting my favour now.” There’s something off about the voice. It’s male and has the twang of an accent, that the soldier instinctively puts somewhere in the midwest. He pushes on to his feet and aims an elbow at the voice but hits empty air. A delighted cackle is the stranger’s answer to his attack. Wildly he looks around and notes that things seem to move slower than usual but there is no one around. He spins on his heels for a moment but there is no one there.

“There’s a favour you owe me and I’ve come to collect,” the voice whispers again in his ear and the soldier spins around. This time there are blue eyes in front of him. Their blue is overwhelming and the soldier can’t look away, can’t see anything else.

 “That’s better. Once upon a time you made a deal. I helped your friend and now you’ll help mine.” A giggle. “We love drama don’t we, as incidentally this will be the same friend.” The blue eyes come closer and the soldier feels lips ghost over his.

 “Now. Remember yourself and go save our friend.” The kiss is just barely there. A fleeting touch of lips against his. It doesn’t matter that it’s more of a touch than a proper kiss, it clenches at his heart, punches at his stomach. The soldier gasps and falls to his feet. Something seems to _click_ inside inside his head. Gasping he staggers back to his feet. There is no one else around as he spins around to look at the river.

 “Steve,” Bucky whispers and jumps back into the river.

 

**Nameless**

  


He’s not the soldier anymore but he’s not Bucky anymore. He can’t be, not right now. The name stabs at something inside him every time Steve says it. After a while he snaps and yells at Steve. Yells at Steve who is big and strong and _alive_ . Who looks at him with such sad eyes but remains silent as he hurls insults and anger. The man, who was The soldier, who had been Bucky, but doesn’t know who he is right now, storms off. Not far, he’s still in the sight of the compound, can see it from the tree he’s currently pummeling into splinters. The sun is still high when a voice behind him makes the soldier… _no, not the soldier anymore. Never again._.´. turn around.

 “You know that tree has done nothing to you. There are perfectly nice punching bags inside. Steve has a habit of breaking them so I’m sure he could loan a few for you if you wanted.” The archer on Steve’s team sits on a tree branch, bow near him, swinging his legs in the air, seemingly unconcerned with everything.

 “What?”

 The man grins at him. It’s cheeky and charming in a way that he hasn’t noticed in people in a long long time.

 “Destroying trees is pointless and we have perfectly good training facility in the basement. Or I could spar with you, if you wanted?” There’s silence as they just stare at each other.

 “I’d pommel you to the ground.” He says and turns around. A sharp whistle comes from behind him and then there is an arrow sticking in the tree, the feathers tickling his cheek. Spinning around, surprised more than anything else, he glares at the other man.

 “You’d have to catch me first!” The grin is infectious as the man draws and lets another arrow fly. The metal hand snatches it out of the air before it hits. The act is rewarded by a delighted laugh.

 “I’m gonna break this arrow on your head.” The threat is met with a grin and a bow as the archer drops down from the tree, with a fancy flip in the air. As soon as his feet hit the ground he turns tail and runs deeper into the woods, laughing like an idiot. James follows.

 The sun is set and the stars are just barely visible when finally they stop, sitting and collapsing on the ground, breathing hard.

 “That was fun, Bucky.”

 “Don’t call me that. I’m not Bucky. He died a long time ago.” His good mood, that the chase and the ensued spar had created turns sour again.

 “Ok. Sorry. What do you want to be called?” Their boots hit together as he’s being kicked, lightly, almost gently.

 “I don’t know. Just not Bucky. Who are you anyway? I don’t actually know.” He hadn’t cared about the others as soon as he was certain they were not threats. Being selfish for a time, caring only about him and Steve.

 “Clint. Clint Barton. I guess we weren’t officially introduced.” There seems to be no anger, no disappointed in Clint’s voice.

 “Nah. I just didn’t care.” He gets a surprised laugh for his honesty and another kick at his shin. Fighting a smile he kicks back. Maybe he should start to care about the others.

 “You’re snarky. Steve said you’d be. I like it.” The man, Clint, rolls onto his stomach and smiles down. The stars give him an eerie, otherworldly glow, as his eyes are hidden by shadows. Something tucks at the back of his head. Something about the other tugs at a long forgotten memory.

 “Do I know you? I think I should know you.” The words are out of his mouth before he can think about it. There are lot of things he has forgotten but this seems important.

 “I ha’ve just that kind of face. And you need new lines. I’m gonna go now. Shower and sleep. You should think about it as well.” With a wink Clint draws up on his feet and pats his shoulder. It’s not as horribly intrusive to be touched in a friendly fashion as he thought it would be. “Good night James.”

 “James.” He whispers, a question.

 “That’s your name isn’t it?” James nods. It was. It is. And it fits right now. It’s something that he has always been but never really used. It feels right. Feels right to claim something from his past but in a way that he’s not used to.

 “Yeah. I think I’ll be James. For now.” He, _James_ , stretches on the grass and looks up at the stars. He doesn’t remember the last time he smiled.

 “Ok. Good night James. I’ll see you in the morning.” Clint walks away and leaves James to his thoughts under the stars. It’s beautiful and peaceful. He falls asleep and dreams of a face long forgotten with blue eyes that held the stars in them.

 

**James**

 

Clint is hilarious in a way that only a person who somehow can’t quite manage to function as a normal human being can be. He’s a disaster most of the time. On monday he comes stumbling in on a morning meeting, half dressed, a half fletched arrow sticking  behind his ear, groaning for coffee. James doesn’t smile when Natasha steals the arrow and whacks him with it. There’s a lot of laughter from the others. Being here for over a month has almost made James believe that this is normal. This laughter and camaraderie, the soft violence between long time friends. It’s different than what James is used to, what he expected. There is hitting and wrestling, as well as prank wars that almost always go sideways and escalate in some way. But none of it is aimed to be truly hurtful, it’s all in the name of fun, Clint has explained to him, glint in his eye as James helped him place a bucket of water on top of a door. It’s more like an extended training environment, he tells him as Steve sidesteps the archaic ‘trap’. All in good fun, Steve assures him as he tackles Clint and tries to throw him into the pool. James follows them, a squirming and laughing Clint, trying to escape. James looks at the laughing face, the blue eyes begging him silently. Just learning the lay of the land, James sounds apologetic as he pushes Steve in there instead and drags Clint to dry land. “It’s on,” Steve, wet and looking happier than James can remember, says.

James throws a grin at Steve. A grin that hasn’t seen the light of day in decades. It’s his carefree, daredevil, ‘bring it on’ grin that feels good on his face. He takes Clint’s hand as they run away, Steve following them, dripping water everywhere.

“I think you’re awesome. Have thought so for a long time”, Clint whispers as they hide in the rafters of the building. James looks at the blue eyes and again he’s hit with the feeling that he _knows_ them. They don’t speak after that. Not for a while. The time seems to slow down, something in James’ stomach clenches. They are quiet, they wait, they hide. Then Clint giggles and looks at Bucky.

“We’re playing hide and seek with fucking Captain America,” Clint giggles and James laughs. He reaches out with his metal hand and tangles his fingers in the blond hair, his thumb touches Clint’s ear. It causes him to freeze as if it hurts and that causes James to freeze, afraid that it was a mistake. A surprised look and a smile.

“I was afraid it would hurt, but it doesn’t.” Clint whispers and leans into the touch.

“I really want to kiss you but I don’t know if that would be a good idea.” James confesses, but he leans closer.

“I’m all for it.” There's something sharp and feral in Clint’s smile before he lunges forward. The kiss is intense, powerful in a way that no kiss has ever been, to James’ knowledge at least. It’s not awkward at all. There’s familiarity to it. In one word it’s good, makes him feel more like a human. It’s nice, bordering on amazing.

 

**The fey**

 

After the kiss everything turns to the better. James has someone besides Steve that he trusts. He can sneak into Clint’s room if he can’t sleep and has company on his nightly roaming rounds around the place to feel safe. Their relationship is a roller coaster. It seems to switch between being little shits together, and having broody fights that are resolved by intense making out sessions and cuddling on the couch. The others find them funny and obnoxious, usually at the same time. But James is the happiest he has been in a long while. Hell, without irony he can say he’s the happiest he’s been in this century. Steve punches him for the pun.

It all goes to hell when Clint is snatched from his perch and they can’t find him. James is ready to tear the whole city down to find their friend but Natasha sits on him as Steve tries to reason with him. It takes time and when Tony finally finds him, and they set onto the place in cold fury, no one stops James as he tears through the underground compound. Terminator, Tony stage whispers and that’s actually quite accurate to what he does to the building. And the people in it. Steve doesn’t stop him, doesn’t try to make him pull his punches and there’s something gleeful in the way Natasha crushes those that James missed. Bruce was left behind to act as possible reinforcement and Iron man handles the air support as well as possible runaways. There are none. They do find him, though for a moment James is not sure that it is Clint.

The room is cold and dark, black iron bars and a white line drawn across the doorway. Clint is slumped in the corner, equally dark chains all around him, chaining him to the floor. He’s just a form on the floor. Unmoving. They don’t find keys to the door but with Steve helping him, James manages to bend the bars a bit. It’s enough for them to slip through. Natasha stops them from crossing the line. She moves to investigate the doorway and the ominous line of white stuff on the floor. It takes a moment and then she looks at the men, baffled.

 “It’s salt. Just basic salt.” She says, looking thoughtful. A quick wipe off the floor and she breaks the line before going inside the cell. Nothing weird happens. James is the next to scamper into the cell, jogging to the prone form. Steve stands guard. When James kneels on the ground Natasha is already halfway through the elementary looking locks on the chains.

 “Clint?” He’s afraid to touch without permission. It’s a thing that they had discussed at length during long night time hours. There’s no response. Bucky chances it and cards his hand through the blond hair. Clint’s face is almost hidden, laying on the floor on his stomach as he is. There’s dirt and some bruising. He makes a quick assessment as Natasha works on the last of the chains. There seems to be nothing seriously wrong with Clint. No major wounds, no needle marks that he can find in the obvious places.

 “Clint?” James tries again, gives a little shake. There’s nothing. Not even a twinge. There is something weird about his features. Something sharper. Flickering. But no movement at all. 

“Finally.” Natasha says and flicks open the last lock. They pull the chains away and turn Clint on his back.

 “Hello, sleeping beauty. Time to wake up,” he leans down, touching gently. Clint opens his eyes and James rears back. The eyes are still blue but alien in their brightness and the pupils are large and big and seem to look straight to his soul. The smile on the face widens into something too big, hint of sharp teeth behind it.

 “Hello, handsome.” The voice is wrong and James wants to rear back even further away but he’s rooted to the spot. Clint, or whatever he is sits up, stretches and then stands with a fluidity that seems even more graceful than Natasha on her best days. James is aware that she has backed away into the corner. Knows that Steve is right there but still, he’s afraid in a way he’s not been in a long time. The Clint shaped being looks at him, feral, terrifying grin on his face.

“What’s wrong, James? Get up. We have things to maim.” James stands up, snaps to a standing position. He’s unable to look away and he’s scared. Scared of Clint. Scared of this thing wearing his skin.

 “Who are you?” Steve asks, still outside the cell, looking worried, alarmed. Clint’s attention snaps away from James and the feeling of being held in place vanishes. Gasping Bucky slumps forward but Natasha catches him.

 “I am who I’ve always been. Take care of him for me. I’ve got scores to settle now that there are no more chains.” The smile is softer now as he turns back to James. And for a moment he’s just Clint again.

 “I’ve watched for a long time. I’m glad you’re alright.” He doesn’t take a step forward but suddenly he’s there. Right in front of his face, hand caressing his hair. Natasha seems frozen in place at his shoulder and Steve doesn’t move. “You don’t owe me anything. When you want… Just remember that I like cream and cookies. And pizza. Just… Remember.” The following kiss is electrifying in a way that none of their previous ones have been. Then he’s gone. James blinks and time speeds up again. Steve and Natasha look confused and James has to swallow a few times to get past the lump in his throat. He remembers a boy in a carnival, a bartender in a seedy bar in Brooklyn. A soldier trapped with him in the cell. And a dozen, hundred more times of meeting a man with blond hair, a wicked grin and the bluest eyes.

 “Let’s go home. I’ll explain there.” His teammates, friends are baffled but follow him out of the compound. Later he drops a book of folklore on the table and tells them everything. Almost everything. He doesn’t say anything about the deep hole that has appeared somewhere in his chest. Tony doesn’t believe him. James doesn’t care. Natasha sighs into her mug of tea and squeezes his arm.

A week later, a hundred books read about folklore and the fey later, he leaves a still steaming cup of coffee, two slices pepperoni pizza on a plate, as well as packet of cookies and cream oreos on his windowsill. He knows the reason behind the iron chains, the ineffectual salt line in the cell.  He wakes up at midnight with a soft hand carding through his hair.

“Hello James,” Clint says, cookie in hand, and grin on his face. When James kisses him, he tastes of everything that he loves and something more as well. Clint slips into bed with him and they hold each other.

“You still owe me a drink,” Clint whispers against his cheek. He smells of the oil he uses on his bow and of wet dog hair, as an almost afterthought there’s a hint of something electric behind it. It reminds James of a forest after a thunderstorm.

 “I left you coffee,” he whispers back, his stubbled cheek rubbing against a smooth one.

 “It was cold already. Doesn’t count.” The argument is petulant in tone. Almost childish. James grins and closes his eyes.

 “If you’re still here in the morning, I’ll make you breakfast. Including hot coffee.” It’s a promise even when James now knows how much that kind of promise ties him down. What kind of hold he gives Clint with this. He doesn’t care.

 “Deal.” Clint whispers to him, sealing it with a kiss.

**Author's Note:**

> Hope you liked it. And sorry if for you I've butchered the Fae. I just like playing around with things.
> 
> Also I have no idea how NY worked in the 30-40s. #googlemaps


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